


Every 28 Days

by tribunal



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Other, Shapeshifting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-12-17 10:00:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21052523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tribunal/pseuds/tribunal
Summary: The intricate knotwork of his robes lie in utter tatters on the meat of his chest, auburn fur ripping through dreadfully askew remainders. His hands, now curiously morphed into what you can only feasibly describe aspawsfinger at the scraps of his clothing, thick digits tipped with wickedly-sharp claws.Crystal catboy acquires more fluff. WoL reacts.





	Every 28 Days

**Author's Note:**

> getting back in the swing of writing, figured I'd post some of my xiv works. this one is for my healer, circe.  
Happy (very belated) birthday! Can’t wait to see you continue to grow as a healer! I couldn’t ask for a sweeter scholar!

To your credit, you don’t drop the groceries until the beast wearing your partner’s shredded garbs turns to face you, lips peeling back from dagger-sharp teeth in a horrible facsimile of a smirk. Your weapon’s across the room, aether not summoned up quickly enough, lamenting your fate when it speaks.

With your partner’s voice? Is this some sort of voidsent trickery? Cruel japeries such as this seems right up their alley, but you can’t address that without getting past the anger curling hot in your gut.

“Please!” His hands--paws--are in front of him, begging for clemency, adopting the same mannerisms so familiar to you. “It’s me! It’s G’raha Tia! Please don’t freak out, please stop freaking out!” Oh Hydaelyn, and that voice is _so raw_, so utterly familiar to you that it’s given you pause, made the aether collecting at your fingertips halt, energy humming between you.

If you’re wrong to trust that voice, then let the void take you both. It is enough.

You cannot exactly promise that you aren’t doing exactly what he’s specifically asked you _not to do_, hands wringing at one another as though you could rip the flesh clean off. His breathing is hard, coming out in choppy, anxiety-laden pants. His obvious stress is wearing your own nerves thin, his name coming out half-done, stuttery, a whisper before you’ve given up entirely.

“G...G’raha?” _Is this a Tia thing or simply a G’raha thing?_ The question lies in the back of your throat. Too rude, bit harsh considering he looks absolutely miserable in this fluffier form. It gets gulped back. “Does...Does this happen often?”

The intricate knotwork of his robes lie in utter tatters on the meat of his chest, auburn fur ripping through dreadfully askew remainders. His hands, now curiously morphed into what you can only feasibly describe as _paws_ finger at the scraps of his clothing, thick digits tipped with wickedly-sharp claws.

“Ah, just...once a month.” Strange, the dichotomy between those innocent, forlorn motions and and the bulk of G’raha’s newly transformed self. His brows tilt inwards, hidden in the thicket of his newfound fur, expression no less sheepish for all the fluff.

Fur. That’s likely the most surprising part of this, once the initial shock wears off--as much as it can, anyways. He’s covered as though he were a Hrothgar, snout much more curved, more in line with his normal features. It warms you to know that--even as a...creature (it somehow feels filthy, offensive to refer to him as such; he’s still _your G’raha_) with three added feet of height and an unwieldy amount of musculature dosed on top--he’s still, at his core, so sublimely G’raha, still delicate in his motions and caring in his nature.

“So...with the moon?” You had noticed his increasing unease, though marked it up to anything else--stresses at work, shyness around you? You’ve never claimed to know the traditions of the Sun Seekers, did your best to assuage whatever lingering anxieties were on his mind by idly scratching between his ears, smiling faintly at the purring it would summon up, like clockwork. Always underneath his breath so you wouldn’t be tempted to poke fun at him for it, as though you’d need a reason.

With this new form, you’ll admit, you hesitate. It’s certainly...just a bit terrifying. Yes, that’s absolutely _terror_ and nothing more burbling a fine line in the depths of your stomach. It’s not something you can dwell on, especially when the recently transformed Tia’s looking at you with such misery in that heterochromatic gaze, even as he nods jerkily.

You’re sure you’ve read about this somewhere, probably some half-cocked myth you put aside, out of your mind; there’s some validity in legends--of that you have no doubt--but _shapeshifting catboys_ seems...a bit of a stretch.

But, that’s exactly what you’ve got now, isn’t it? Tentatively, you reach out your hand, crossing the breath of the room in a scant amount of strides, cupping the softness of his...maw? Is it still a chin, or…?

No. Never mind that. Your short-shorn nails dig into the underside of his--chin, you’re going with chin--a coo rising from the back of your throat, cut off quickly with the clearing of your throat. You staunchly don’t glance up at where you know for a _fact_ he’s laughing at you with those eyes, mouth pulled up in a smirk. That doesn’t last for long; it’s your turn to avoid laughter, biting on the inside of your cheek at how quickly he sinks into your touch, deep, rumbling purrs so akin to gravel, deep within his chest.

“How long are these shifts usually?” Your voice is barely higher than his purring, as though there is something precious about this, something fragile the sound of your voice might break.

He’s outright nuzzling into your hand, breath coming out in careful pants as he answers: “Just for the night. I’ll be fine in the morning.” A contemplative pause. “A bit sore, maybe, but fine.”

When you withdraw your hand, he follows after it, just for a moment. “Later, let me work on dinner!”

Dinner is a quiet affair, you trying not to watch his eating too closely and him trying to not notice your attempts. After putting away the dishes, G’raha goes to kiss you on the forehead--a habit that goes by every night--and hesitates.

You won’t have that.

“Come here.” You pull him to your height, letting the heat of his surprised breath waft over your head before his mouth presses--haltingly--against the skin of your forehead. There is a question in the cock of his head, one you press a finger against, shake your head to.

“Let’s go to bed, hm? It’s getting late.”

And as he curls his body against yours, moonlight coming in faded through the slits of your blinds, you’d swear you could hear him whisper: “thank you”.


End file.
